The Duty of A Country
by theapricottree
Summary: Alfred Alfred Jones is a billionaire, living the ritzy life that the 1920s have to offer. He continuously isolates himself from European affairs, despite his rising potential as a world power. Though, when the Depression hits, Alfred looses everything-including himself. Until one day, a man in a wheelchair speaks to him, and Alfred remembers what it truly means to be a country...


This was actually for a vocabulary project for my College Composition class. Our teacher let us write whatever we wanted, so I did fanfiction. I almost forgot how much I love writing things like this. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. /clearly

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The Duty of a Country

"Hey, Alfred, how about another round?" a couple of ladies shouted in unison.

The tall, blonde-haired man spun around with delight, enjoying the sounds of his party-goers. The gaudy mansion hall sparkled with dazzling chandeliers and decorative tapestries. He weaved his way through the throngs of tailored suits and tawdry flapper dresses. Picking up a tray of wine glasses, he strode over at the ladies' request.

Alfred bowed, playfully earnest. "Your drinks, mademoiselles."

The young brunettes giggled. "Oh, Alfred, it's the twentieth century, no need to be so formal," one of them teased, barely able to hold her wine without spilling it. She hung onto her friend, dressed in a vibrant sanguine.

"Your parties are always so lively," her other friend cooed, craning her head around exaggeratedly. "What I would give to live in such a place!"

"Isn't it grand? Got this ritzy place recently, too. The 1920s seem to be booming with more success than I thought," he bragged in his hip vernacular. The girls laughed as if he'd said something ridiculously funny.

"Hey, they don't call me America for nothing!"

Alfred was a loquaciousfellow, a new country on the world stage. People often called him a jejune, inexperienced country, but he never payed much to attention to gossip. Though, this was a man who would make it a priority to chat with everyone in the room. Large crowds and extravagant parties excited him. His laissez-faire economic policy did nicely, facilitating success in recent years, allowing him to host such boastful parties. He was, America, after all, and he would exhaust every pleasure that the roaring 20s allowed him.

"A toast to normalcy!" Alfred yelled. Everyone cheered as they clinked their glasses together.

Alfred stopped mid-conversation when he spotted an oddly glum, yet familiar, party-goer. The man had messy blond hair—looked as if it hadn't been combed in days, honestly—and faded white stockings. Alfred could only pin the fashion as British, and he beamed brightly at the realization of who this enigma was.

Alfred called to him excitedly, startling the well-dressed man. "Hey Arty!"

"Blimey! Don't scare me like that!" The British man hissed at him in a unfriendly tone.

Alfred was unsurprised at his fellow country's vexation, as Britain had always been this cross with him. Well, ever since the Revolution, at least. The two's conversations largely consisted of Arthur scolding at him for being an idiot, Alfred charismatically ignoring it. Something seemed off about the country, though. Arthur's shaky composition worried him; nothing caught Britain off guard. Alfred offered him a drink, but he refused, surprisingly.

_CRASH!_ "EEEEEEEKK!"

Alfred turned to the source of the alarming noises. Wine seeped across the floor as a few girls stood over the shattered glass. The half-drunk flappers laughed obnoxiously at their little accident.

He chuckled until he notice the look of horror on Arthur's face. Arthur must have jumped back a few feet because his position had changed.

"C'mon Arty, bud, don't be shy," Alfred teased, though slightly worried.

"Can I chat with you outside?" Arthur asked, breathing heavily, eyes darting around the room nervously.

The two made their way into the moonlit courtyard, the rays reflecting off the fountain's waters. A few couples dotted the scape, but it was significantly quieter than inside. Alfred breathed in the summer air, proudly viewing his riches.

"Check out my yard, ain't it swanky?" he asked, a bit superciliousin his comment. Alfred looked at the stern-faced Brit. "What's eatin' you, cat?"

Arthur shot him a dagger-look. "Half of Europe is in tatters, and here you are drinking and partying to your heart's content!"

Arthur tried hard to conceal his shaking. Afraid of large crowds, shying at every sound. Though he was trying to conceal it, Britain was weak. It hadn't occurred to Alfred that the Great War had just ended a few years previous, and that Arthur hadn't fully recovered yet. The once-powerful empire still faced the macabre effects of war. An ugly, tempestuous war Alfred had chosen to stay out of—well, for the most part.

He sighed, composing himself. "Never mind, that is irrelevant. Anyhow, I came to let you know about the status of our reparations with Germany and the rest of those blokes..."

Alfred nodded and nodded, barely paying attention to the boring update of current _European_ affairs. European "activities" had never mattered very much to him. They were like kids constantly bickering over candy and whose toys were whose. Besides, what did German reparations matter to him when he had all this? Arthur wrapped up his speech with a "bullocks, you had better been bloody listening" and tipped his worker's cap to Alfred.

"Lighten up and have some fun, for once!" Alfred said, inviting him to join the ruckus. Arthur gave him a vacuous gaze that seemed...unsettling, at best, and went on his way.

"Geez, what's his problem." Alfred pouted, returning to the party to chat it up with his guests.

Sweltering summer months hurled by, and Alfred's parties remained as they were in their exuberant glory. Flappers in vibrant dresses and well-groomed men poured in in droves every week. Never had a time been so enjoyable as this, Alfred believed. Though, when fall came creeping in, the exuberant country noticed people slowly vanishing. He reassured himself that he just needed to spice things up a little.

One day, Alfred woke up with a curious cough. He lay in bed for a moment before heading to get a drink of water. "Ugh, why do I feel so tired?" he yawned, extending his arms to stretch.

The tepid sunlight peaked through the tall windows, warming his face. Alfred pulled out a brown pinstripe suit and dressed for the day. The odd air around the mansion made him somewhat uncomfortable. He shrugged it off, occupying himself with a cup of morning coffee on the balcony. Morning light peaked out from the horizon ever so slightly, illuminating one of his many skyscraper cities. Alfred smiled to himself in recollection of his dreams to become such a power. Though, viewing the skyline of the new day looked almost...melancholy. Something was off.

"I'm heading out to deposit some cash, boys!" He stroked his collie's fur and patted an energetic golden retriever on the head. Alfred laughed at their playful pawing. The two dogs whimpered incessantly as the door clicked shut.

As he drove, Alfred spotted nothing out of the ordinary but the average city morning traffic. He coughed hoarsely, stepping out of his car towards the ever-crowded stock market. Alfred slid in among the mass of ties and business suits. The crowd became increasingly tight and rowdy as he pushed his way forward. The country looked up at the stocks with dread. _Surely this is a joke?_ he thought to himself. Word spread like wildfire, but the board beneath the bold **Oct. 29, 1929**, told him everything he needed to know. The long black line plummeted with his heart. The promise of the day withered away the seeds of fruition.

The people's mistrust and anxiety swept over him, coursing through his veins and draining his lungs. He grasped at tiny flakes of hope, looking around the room for some kind of answer. A hoax? A mistake? Alfred's pulse skyrocketed at the sight of the chaos surrounding him. Hundreds of businessmen screamed for withdrawals of stock, shouting vehement curses and demands.

"Where is our money?! Give me my money!"

"See what the government has done?! How could they let this happen?!"

"The stock market crashed?! This can't be possible!"

As soon as the throngs had gathered, they dispersed. Nothing remained in the market but scattered papers, empty desks, and a country just as such.

The coming days and weeks sat with Alfred like a heavy summer heat. Long, lugubrious days, thickened his senses, his former confidence but silt on the wind. The irony of it all was almost unbearable. America, prosperous as its skyscrapers and parties suggested, lay with 25% of its populace unemployed. Hundreds of banks across the nation fell into bankruptcy, peoples' life savings gone in days.

It seemed almost like a paradox, impossible yet true. A booming country like him, America, the land of opportunity, falling into such a state? Laughable–and yet here he was.

Alfred ended up letting go half of his house staff, as he could not afford to keep them. The depression deepened, and in a month, he joined the streets with the jobless and the poor. The newspapers only worsened his state. Serendipity seemed to have completely abandoned him, mocking him with daily headlines like: "_**PASTORAL PERIL: DUST STORM HITS THE WEST!**_" and "_**PRESIDENT HOOVER STILL DOES NOTHING!**_". He strolled along the dingy sidewalks of the glittering city he used to admire from afar. Craning his head around, he searched for a familiar face, a friend, perhaps an acquaintance?

"You'd think a guy like me would have no trouble finding–" Alfred stopped at the bridge before him, a winter breeze cooling his cheeks.

He watched the familiar figure of a girl, the flapper in the sanguine dress, struggle over the bridge railing, and drop like a doll into the harbor.

"You hear about the increase in crime and suicides lately, bub?"

"Yeah, amazin', ain't it? Man I feel sorry for that one gal in the paper, lost every little penny she had. Husband threw her out, too."

Alfred moved across the room to the quieter side of the tavern thanks to that unctuous comment. The bars were the only places that would let him loiter for hours.

_Too bad the conversation sucks_, Alfred thought.

He looked through the empty amber beer bottle, spotting the figure of a Brit that looked a little too akin to his surroundings.

"Alfred?" Arthur asked.

Alfred gave him a wry smile. "Who else?"

The Englishman, whom normally took pride in his verbose comments, said nothing for a while. He remained standing as Alfred circled his finger over the top of the beer bottle, not looking up. Arthur took out a meager cigarette, offering it. Alfred shook his head stubbornly.

Britain sighed, lighting the cigarette and setting it between his teeth. "How are you holding up?"

The American grimaced at his question. "I can't even afford alcohol to numb myself. How d'you think I'm doing?"

Arthur set his hands on the table as if he were about to lay down formal terms. As he spoke, Alfred detected the slightest bit of concern in the Brit's voice.

"Listen, Alfred, you have to do something–anything. You can't keep going on like this. Your depression isn't just affecting you, Europe–"

"Do I look like I give a damn about your petty European affairs?" he hissed. "You think I wanted this? 'sides, it don't matter now, anyhow, nothin's gonna change. And don't give me that 'I can lend you economic assistance' horse shit. You're still depressed yourself."

The British man's face glowed beat red. "That's bullocks and you know it! Perhaps wasting away doing nothing is your way of fixing things, I don't bloody care. But you're a world power, for God's sake! Think of everyone you're affecting!"

The two bored holes into the other's head. Arthur clutched his trembling arm, a nervous habit form the war. Sure, Alfred knew of Europe's travails. Germany, already suffering massive poverty post World War I, only worsened in his weakened state. No country could lend the other assistance; it was a new **paradigm** in world disasters–and America contributed to it. Yet, he still could not find the drive to give a damn about Europe in his current state.

Alfred blinked, apathetic. "Is that all you came to say?"

Arthur threw the cigarette butt at him and stormed off. He stalked away in a huff, puffing out chilly winter breaths. _Why is he such a goddamn fool? _Britain thought. He rubbed his forehead. His concerns for the country he raised were always lost in his obligations as a world power. Yet, Alfred still continued to isolate himself, despite his rising potential. A pained, weary feeling overtook him as he walked further and further from the tavern. It broke him to see Alfred like that. The realism that Alfred's former, childlike self might be lost haunted him relentlessly.

_Why can't he see the people he's affecting?_

Arthur heaved a racking coughed into his white handkerchief, staining it scarlet again.

The summer of 1932 crept by, exceptionally sluggish, Alfred no better than he was two years before. Benches became the most comfortable place to sleep, his mansion a distant memory. Fall offered him a little comfort. The sweltering New York City nights made him consider sleeping in the bay with the fish; they weren't complaining.

Alfred chewed on a half-eaten apple he managed to find in the trash. He learned to be less picky with what he wore and ate. Oh, and when he bathed.

Hundreds of people passed by his bench–in cars, on bikes, by foot. No one ever stopped, though. It occurred to Alfred that nothing had really changed. Many looked nearly unaffected. He disliked change, and bitterly congratulated these city-goers for their lack of faith in their country.

"You haven't given them much to look up to, friend. Don't blame them."

Alfred jolted up, finally noticing the distinct man sitting next to him. His surprise quickly turned to anger. "What did you just say? I haven't done a thing to them! They should be helping me!"

The gray-haired man chuckled, readjusting his wheelchair as if he were to stay a while. "No, no, my friend, it's you who should be supporting them. After all, isn't that your duty as a nation?"

Alfred stopped. Wait, was it? The past few years caused him to forget many of the oaths he took when he became the United States of America.

Alfred regained his position on the bench, calmer now. "The most important duty of a country is to ensure the welfare and safety of its people," he recalled. His brow furrowed. "The second...to help other countries."

Alfred turned to the man in the wheelchair. "You–"

He smiled–a genuine smile, kindness Alfred hadn't seen in ages. "They need a leader, son. I know you're just as lost as they are, and you have every right to be. It's time to get up now, though. If you fail, admit it frankly and try again. But above all, try something. Let us try rebuilding together, hm?"

The man pulled out a couple dollars and placed it in Alfred's hand. "Buy yourself a good meal, kid. Oh, and the name's Franklin." He tipped his hat, a keen twinkle in his eye. Alfred stared, almost dazzled. His voice was not booming, nor commanding, but he spoke in such a convincing tone that uplifted his dampened spirits. For the first time in two years, Alfred felt hope in the possibility for a better future.

"I'll see you around soon, my friend."

Alfred swallowed nervously, adjusting his collared suit. He hadn't given a speech since the previous election, and his speaking skills had definitely rusted since then. Countries were required to reaffirm their presence, as well as recapitulateand annually report the nation's current affairs. Unfortunately, his "state" had caused him to shy away from the public eye. The results of the election were clear, but his place, and where they would go from there, certainly weren't. America glanced over at the bright-eyed man to his left. Franklin held up a fist of encouragement. Alfred smiled. He stepped up to the podium with his papers, clearing his throat.

_I have to be strong for them._

"I think the results of this year's election are clear, I don't know why you all keep me around." Alfred chuckled, the assembly reciprocating his laughter.

The country could not have been happier to announce such a victory. "With fifty seven percent of the majority vote, Franklin Delano Roosevelt is now the 32nd president of the United States of America!"

In the years to come, Franklin assisted Alfred in getting back to his determined, cheerful self. Encouraging him to retract is isolationist policies, America became more involved in European, and global, affairs. Soon, headlines flooded the papers with news of Germany's exploits, such as, "_**GERMANY USURPS THE RHINELAND! IS WAR UPON US?**_". Watching from the sidelines, America remained hesitant to assist, still clinging to insecurity. Though, Alfred eventually agreed to join the Allied cause in 1941 (largely due, in part, to Japan), he had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to the scene of his power. Though, America's metamorphosishad proved nothing less than extraordinary.

"Is everything in order on your end, Arthur?" Alfred questioned, standing over a map of Europe. Talk of the invasion and rescue of France became a reality in the past few months efforts.

"Yes, everything is in adequate condition. Germany's attempts to subjugate Europe have been halted, and the troops for Operation Overlord need only our command," Britain replied. "The date is scheduled for next week."

Alfred placed an Allied Powers piece on the coast of France. He clenched his fist. "Perfect. If things go as planned, Francis will be freed from Ludwig's control sooner than expected."

"Alright, meeting dismissed." Arthur nodded, giving a look of approval to Alfred.

Alfred exited the Allies' meeting room, noticing a familiar figure in the lobby. He dove through the flocks of military uniforms and supposedly important figures like a child. He skidded to a stop in front of the aged man whom smiled at Alfred's excitement.

"We have everything ready to go, Franklin! I can't believe it!" Alfred exclaimed with renewed zeal. "We might have a chance at defeating Germany–and I'm helping, I can't believe it!"

Roosevelt belted out a laugh that made some people turn their heads. Alfred grinned happily, saluting and waving around to officials. The excited country turned back to him, beaming like a proud son would at his father. Franklin reached up from his wheelchair, his eyes gleaming, patting America on the forearm.

"You look happier than you did four years ago, my friend."

Alfred smiled, a warm and genuine one. "I suppose I am!"


End file.
